I think back to summer days. Early 90s.
Where is mommy?
Sarafina on the 26 inch, color. Encyclopedia in lap. Sandwich on bed. Thirsty...I'll drink from the bathroom sink; the kitchen sink is harder to reach. Or maybe Sarafina will save me from my thirst. She's my super hero.
Back then, she kept me sane. Kept me focused. If she could take all that, the beatings and killings, this meant nothing. Where she would be slapped, I'd be looked at. Sternly. What kind of coward would I be to cry? There is nothing to cry about. Dead bodies do not surround me. Though gun fire awakens me nightly, it's rarely close enough to do me much harm. (I still slept on the floor many nights, too afraid bullets would grow wings and reach my fifth floor boudoir.)
About 5:15 into this video, I hear life's voice echoing through time. Hinting at my death if I rebelled or thought about fighting back...against poverty, ignorance, commonality, fitting in, cycles of addiction and abuse. How any resistance to its treacherous plan to have me be anything but the greatest, any deviance from the path of crack babies, baby daddies, jagged keloid memories across my face would result in death by failure and disappointment. But Sarafina, she made it clear: there are far worse things than death.
This movie helped raise me. Taught me to be a fighter, to stand up not only for what I believed in, but for what was right. Moreover, it taught me to make sure the two coincided, if not always, often. I am by far no Sarafina, but I refuse to let my transgressors see my eyes piss. I saw how close she was to flat lining when they saw hers.
PS
First one to get me this on DVD gets a prize.
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